


Musings of the Hound

by PumpkinSpite



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Childhood, Drabble Collection, Gender Dysphoria, Headcanon, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Other, tags will change with time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:21:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23431618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PumpkinSpite/pseuds/PumpkinSpite
Summary: Short drabbles based on my headcanons and musings of Bloodhound ~
Kudos: 10





	1. Artur

He never meant anything he said in honest, they'd keep reminding themself.  
Just like them he was licking wounds that will never truly close. Just like them he fled himself into the embrace of the Allfather, first to nurse the scar left by parents that left way too soon, then to heal his hurt ego from a rejection, and finally to cope with the loss of said former lover and his little brother.

They were but a toddler when the tragedy of Talon took hold. They can't remember much, only choking smoke, a tight grip around their backand Johann's voice echoing in their ears.

"ARTUR, TAKE THEM! TAKE THE CHILD!"

Whenever Artur talked about Johann he sounded proud yet hurt. His words were rough but of tender thought, truly the mind of an older brother. Sometimes he'd slip, called him "your father" in places. Those were the times when he would reach for a bottle.

Despite his failings, despite him never finding comfort in the role that two dying people forced onto him, despite being in no way for to raise a child - he did.  
And every time they stand proud on the battlefield, and they call for their scout bird, they think of him.

Not a perfect parent. Not a perfect human. But still, worth loving.

They miss him so much.


	2. Face

They always had a complicated relationship with their face.

Not that they thought they were ugly, quite the contrary. They have been often told that their features were plesent. But how much weight should one put into words spoken by mostly drunken tongues?  
No, what made their face special was that is wasn't their face they were known for. Usually one would see a face and be able to identify it as an individual out of the masses or many other individuals. 

But the face that gave them their identity was a mask.

To them, the games have become a ritual, a necessary evil. Their beliefs requires them to shed blood, if necessary even their own, but the games gave them a perfect platform to make their blade run red. And the wage was just enough to pay off debts, take care of their expenses and hold their hideout on Solace whilst they travel. Hideout, not home.  
Because they hid from the world. A world that rejected them so long ago for the face that was never able to become theirs.  
Their face was a mask. Because their real face is not allowed to exist.

The mask was actually not a simple mask, it was layers of equipment that pressed against their cheeks. All chosen deliberately to hide any skin or even the glimmer of their eyes. This veil, this protection from the weathers and curious glances, has gained more attention than they ever wanted it to gain.  
It felt truly perverse to now see children run the streets in cheap casts of their mask trying to shoot each other with fingerguns.

How happy they must be to be able to shed that mask to breath. How happy and fearless. 

The hunter doesn't get to have this luxury. Their face is a mask. They are the mask.  
They are Bloodhound. And no one else. 

A tender hand patted over the broken nose. Glasses are adjusted.   
They are going out. Wearing a face for a mask. No one will ever know it's them.


End file.
